


One Does Not Simply Flirt With The King

by Tiofrean



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Arwen is not there, Boromir Is Alive, Boromir is a Good Big Bro, Boys In Love, Developing Relationship, Faramir Knows How To Draw, Fluff and Humor, Frottage, Idiots in Love, Kissing, M/M, Post-War of the Ring, Shovel Talk, Someone Help Them, a touch of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 13:13:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19768939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiofrean/pseuds/Tiofrean
Summary: When Faramir was not busy keeping his wide eyes on their king, the king followed him with his own gaze, letting it linger until he could not hold it any longer for fear of being caught. It had been amusing at first, watching the two of them playing this cat and mouse game, but it had become tiresome quickly. Boromir knew these two needed a push in the right direction, or else they would stare at each other from afar for the rest of their lives.





	One Does Not Simply Flirt With The King

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to MermaidSheenaz, who has given me this prompt, the general idea behind it, Faramir drawing stickmen of him and the king, and for all the funny situations in here. She also betaed it, and any remaining mistakes are totally and only my fault. Hannon le, Sheenaz! <3

Boromir could not stop smiling, seeing his brother’s astonished expression every time Aragorn behaved in a decidedly unkingly manner. It was truly amusing, especially that Boromir could clearly remember the times when Aragorn had been just a mere ranger, one of the folks that overprotective mothers used to scare their babies into submission with. 

Granted, Boromir had not been there for the bigger part of their quest, not after being gravely injured and miraculously rescued by the very timely comeback of the Lothlórien Elves. He had joined the Fellowship - or what had been left of it - during the battle at the Black Gate, but the memories he had gathered during their early days as companions were  some serious tales . Especially considering the topic of a certain ranger, who had been at the time known only as Strider, and couldn’t run fast enough when a wild and very angry sow had tried to scare him away from her little piglets hidden in the bushes nearby.  The screech Aragorn had given back then, coupled with his leggings being hurriedly pulled up, because their future king had chosen that particular bush to deal with some personal matters, had been as unkingly as they come. 

Thank the Valar that the Hobbits had had more courage than sense and jumped the pig with their swords, effectively providing them with their afternoon meal and saving Aragorn’s backside. 

And here he was now, High King Elessar, drinking good ale and discussing taxes with Faramir, who looked progressively more star-eyed as the evening went on. It was easy to see that his little brother held their new king in the highest regard, and Boromir was not surprised. Faramir, the newly crowned Prince of Ithilien,  had waited for the old tales to come true his whole life. And when they had finally been given life, when the King of Gondor arrived, Faramir could not help but be smitten with him. Enough, to excuse the king for starting a tax debate during their joint dinner and going off on a tangent about the funding of the army while the second course was being served. 

It seemed that the only thing that could stop Faramir’s beatific smile was Aragorn himself, grabbing a roasted leg of something that looked like chicken, and biting into it, only to mumble the next few words around a mouthful of meat. Boromir almost laughed aloud when whatever Faramir was prepared to say trailed off into nothingness while he sat there and stared at his liege biting into the juicy meat. 

Granted, the dinner was not a big affair, just the three of them and four other lords,  invited to join them only because they had by accident been in the same room and it would have been rude to omit them. But it was not an official feast, and so Aragorn restored to his usual ranger antics, the ones Boromir knew so well. They had spent a long enough time together that he had noticed  Aragorn’s practicality. He could operate cutlery just fine, but why would he, when his hunting knife was so much sharper and cut better? There were no officials around them, so their king let himself relax a little, sipping ale and eating however he wished. 

It took Faramir’s eyes a surprisingly long time to acquire that starry look again, but when it was back, Boromir could not stop the chuckling laughter that escaped him. He masked it quickly, bringing his own cup up and gulping down some of the surprisingly sweet drink. King Elessar must have noticed his reaction, because he gifted him with an imploring glance, raising one eyebrow in question. Boromir chuckled again, shaking his head.    
“Do you find the proposal of cutting the funds for mining so amusing?” Aragorn asked with a twinkle in his eye.    
“No, no, nothing like that,” Boromir said quickly, then shrugged. “I was simply reminded of some happenings during our quest together.”    
“Oh? Pray tell us!”    
“I am not sure if it is appropriate,” he hinted, looking briefly at his younger brother. But Elessar continued staring at him,  a small smile dancing at the corners of his lips, tugging them up, and Boromir relented. 

“Do you remember that time when you were attacked by that wild boar?” He asked conspiratorially. “I was merely reminiscing our friends’ strength and courage…”    
“You mean,” Aragorn interrupted him, smirking, “their ruthless pursuance of dinner?” He clarified, the smirk turning into a wide grin. Boromir nodded with a laugh.    
“Yea, had it not been for their courage and persistence, we would be sorely wounded!”    
“My  _ ass _ would be sorely wounded,” Aragorn corrected him. He wanted to say something more, maybe add an insight to that truly dreadful day, but Faramir’s abrupt coughing stopped him immediately. 

In a blink of an eye - and far quicker than it took Boromir to realize that his brother had inhaled some ale rather than swallowing it - Aragorn was turning to Faramir, one hand clapping him on the back, the other placed soothingly on the young prince’s arm. When the fit passed away, and Faramir could breathe freely again,  Aragorn pushed his own cup into his hand, urging him to combat the raspiness in his throat before it could even be heard. 

Boromir stared at them in wonder, noticing the affection mirrored on both of their faces, something that had to be palpable by then. Curiously, he glanced around, but other than the usual concern they were able to display, the lords did not seem to notice what was right in front of them. Shaking his head in disbelief, Boromir turned back to his king and his brother, watching in astonishment as they went back to their talk about taxes and the army, completely ignoring whatever feelings which had grown between them. 

_ Something had to be done about that.  _

-&-

Over the next few days, Boromir watched the king closely. He had no reason to keep an eye on Faramir - he knew well what his brother’s heart desired, he had lived with him for over thirty years, it was nothing new at this point. But Elessar, while familiar and noble, still required a thorough assessment. 

_ A thorough assessment which only took a week.  _

Between the affectionate touches and happy smiles directed at Faramir, Aragorn seemed to be completely absorbed in the prince. Whenever they were together, be it at the council or during a walk in the gardens - which Boromir had to observe from up a tree, lest he be discovered - Aragorn was so drawn to his younger brother, that he would trip over the first unruly root that had the audacity to grow on their king’s path. Boromir knew a distracted Aragorn when he saw one, he had had enough proofs of it when they had been staying in Lord Elrond’s house in Rivendell. Back then, Aragorn had been following a certain Elven maiden, Arwen Undómiel, who had since sailed away to the land of eternal life.  Their king’s behavior had been much the same, up to the point when Boromir had asked him jokingly once  _ “What kind of a ranger are you?”  _ when Aragorn had landed himself in a small stream, so starstruck had he been with the beauty of the fair lady. They had not been good friends back then, and so all Boromir had gained was a stink eye and a grumbled response. 

In the gardens, at the feet of the citadel, Aragorn was acting in the same way, tripping over roots because he was too focused on what Faramir was saying about the city’s sewers to watch his path. Faramir would always jump in to help him, always making sure that his king was unharmed, after which he would take it upon himself to steer them along a better trail, navigating roots and twigs until the bells told them the recess was over and it was time to work again. 

Council meetings were not easy either. While Faramir was quite used to winning arguments with reason and grand words, Elessar would become increasingly bored during long debates. His previous lifestyle often called to him, and he started sneaking out with the brothers to enjoy some fresh air on the horseback. In the Grand Hall, during long meetings and unnecessary disputes, the only thing making him appear somehow interested in the proceedings, was Faramir himself, quarreling over this or that. His brother no longer had to convince their father to let him take a sufficient amount of men to protect their borders, but he had never lost the sharpness and swiftness he had gained during those pointless quarrels with Denethor, and so he was a sight to behold. 

Clearly Aragorn thought so, too, almost falling asleep during prolonged debates, visibly waking every time Faramir started to speak. 

And when they were not talking, they were  _ staring _ at each other. Boromir was a captain, he knew the importance of a well placed glare. Whether the recipient was his enemy or one of his subordinates, a good staring-down usually settled a lot of matters and saved them some time - and men - during unnecessary fights. 

But, what was happening with Aragorn and Faramir were not glares - quite the opposite, in fact. When Faramir was not busy keeping his wide eyes on their king, the king followed him with his own gaze, letting it linger until he could not hold it any longer for fear of being caught. It had been amusing at first, watching the two of them playing this cat and mouse game, but it had become tiresome quickly. Boromir knew these two needed a push in the right direction, or else they would stare at each other from afar for the rest of their lives. If Boromir had done half of what they were doing, he would have been married already. Twice. 

-&-

When Boromir entered Aragorn’s study one evening, he thought it to be deserted at first. If it hadn’t been for a thin trail of smoke rising from behind tall stacks of books and parchments, he would have started wondering why the candles were still lit if there was nobody there to work by them. When the door behind him closed with a noticeable noise, a mop of dark hair peeked from behind the old tomes.   
“I will be finished soon, Faramir,” the king reassured, the smoke forming a small cloud above his head.   
“Try again, my king,” Boromir said, grinning when Aragorn stood up immediately.   
“Boromir! What brings you here at this late hour?” The king frowned, glancing at the windows, almost as if he was checking if it was still night and that he had not worked unbidden through it just to see the light shining outside. Thankfully, the sky was still dark. 

“What brings me is my brother’s absence in light of this here fine wine.” With that, Boromir raised his hand, presenting the bottle he was holding to Aragorn. The king smiled softly.    
“I take it he is still in the library?”    
“Yes, up to his elbows figuring out the best place for the new crop fields.” Boromir shook the bottle. “He said he is not coming out until he has it sorted, so I figured we should start without him.”    
“Very well, give me five minutes to sign the last decree on the healing herbs and we can get to the more pleasant part of the evening,” Aragorn said, looking pointedly at the documents on his desk. Boromir nodded, moving to the fireplace, sitting himself in one of the armchairs standing there.    
“Healing herbs? Are you declaring kingsfoil the chief of all weeds?” He asked jokingly, to which Aragorn laughed.    
“Not  _ yet.  _ No, I just want academies to get some additional provisions when it comes to herb gardens they maintain. Faramir pointed out that in the last few years the funding had been cut, so I am merely restoring the balance here,” he explained, signing the parchment and dusting it with a bit of drying sand. 

“There! Now… what did you bring?” Aragorn asked, coming over and sitting himself in the armchair next to Boromir. The third seat remained empty, and the king glanced at it only briefly, before he turned his attention to the bottle.    
“A fine drink, indeed! Éomer gifted it, hoping it would help diluting some of the grief that had befallen Gondor after the war. I think we could give it a try.”    
“Why?” Aragorn fronwed, watching as Boromir opened the wine and took a long sip. He reached his hand out in mute request.    
“It has been six months since our father died,” Boromir muttered quietly, handing the bottle over. Aragorn hummed, taking a swing.    
“You do not seem that devastated by his death, though, if you don’t mind me saying that,” he observed. Boromir could only nod grimly. 

“My father always wanted what was best for Gondor. He did not always succeed, but he tried. There were other shortcomings of his, though, which lay a shadow over his life.”    
“Faramir?” Aragorn asked quietly, his tone unexpectedly serious. Boromir raised an eyebrow at him, surprised.    
“You know?”    
“I heard he was a strict ruler and an even stricter father,” the king explained. “The maids like to stick their noses into other people’s business and gossip about it at every opportunity. Especially the kitchen help.”    
“Aye, they have always loved Faramir, ever since he was a child.” Boromir murmured, his face stern. Aragorn took another swing, then offered him the bottle, which he gladly took, gulping down from it. 

“I take it from your expression that your father lacked in that regard.” At that, Boromir laughed, but there was only sorrow in the sound escaping him.    
“Have you ever noticed how my brother glances over his shoulder whenever somebody walks into the library?” He asked grimly, and Aragorn found himself swallowing heavily before answering with a nod. “Yea, it’s not out of curiosity, believe me.” 

A queasy feeling started to make itself known in the king’s stomach. He thought of young Faramir, with his appetite for wisdom that was bearing fruit now, after years spent in the great library of Minas Tirith. To be scolded for the rare gift of thirst for knowledge? To be scared to read books lest his father finds him? 

As Aragorn stared at Boromir, trying to push away the morbid images that entered his mind, his companion shook his head almost as if he wanted to dismiss the transgressions of the past.    
“Do you know why he was in Osgiliath, Aragorn?” He asked quietly, almost in a whisper. The king shook his head, too, then reconsidered.    
“I have been told that Osgiliath needed to be defended, and that it had gone terribly wrong in light of insufficient troops and the superior number of orcs attacking.”    
“That was the first time. Father sent him back there, again. He did not want to give him enough men to stand a chance…”   
“What?!” Aragorn stared at him, mouth open in shock. To send his own son to certain death?  He had seen the wound on Faramir’s shoulder, he had  _ healed it, _ knew the extent of the pain the arrow and the circumstances brought upon the young man. 

_ It seems he had not known the whole story.  _

“Why would anyone send their child to certain death?” Aragorn mused aloud, talking more to himself, but Boromir answered him anyway.    
“Our father was angry at him for me dying,” he explained in a tone that should make it clear. Aragorn frowned, confusion evident on his features. “Yes,” Boromir went on. “Father did not know that I lived. He was angry that I died and Faramir remained. Denethor had told him as much, told him that he had wished Faramir was in my stead, dying on the quest. He was  _ mad,  _ Aragorn.” 

Boromir took a long swing from the bottle, then handed it over, watching as Aragorn did the same. The king thought about what he had heard, wondered at the newly discovered courage and strength of the young prince. Keeping himself in check would be so much harder now. He glanced at Boromir, who looked as if he wanted to add something, but in the same moment, the door opened with a creak, and in walked Faramir. Aragorn jerked his head up, a smile spreading across his face immediately, erasing all the troubling thoughts instantly.    
“Faramir! Would you care to join us?” He asked, looking pointedly at the bottle. Faramir shook his head.    
“My lord,” he sketched a quick bow, which Aragorn wanted to get rid of already. There were way too many formalities between them, still. He did not like that at all. “I merely came to see if I can take some of the paperwork and send it with Mablung to Ithilien already. He is departing at the first light and could deliver it to Emyn Arnen.”    
“Come now, brother, enjoy the evening… or what’s left of it,” Boromir prodded, grabbing the bottle and sipping from it.    
“It does sound nice, but I am way too tired. I’m afraid I would fall asleep as soon as I was seated,” Faramir said, shaking his head. 

Aragorn could see that he looked exhausted, so he took pity on him. He walked over to the desk, retrieved the needed parchments and then handed them over to Faramir.    
“Here. I think I covered everything.”    
“Thank you.” Faramir smiled, and Aragorn instantly felt a lot warmer. Even the precious wine from Rohan, no matter how good, did not have this effect on him.    
“Not a problem. And please, once this is done, get some sleep, Faramir,” he said it like a request, not a command, and the prince nodded.    
“I intend to.” 

After the young man walked out, and Aragorn was left standing near his desk, still staring after him almost in a daze, Boromir stood up, too. He took the bottle with him, and circled the seats to stand near the king.    
“He’s been hurt enough, Aragorn.”    
“More than enough, I’d say,” Elessar agreed, nodding slowly.    
“See to it that you won’t ever do it.” 

It took Aragorn a moment to understand the meaning, but once he did, his cheeks turned pink.    
“Of what do you speak, Boromir?”  _ Diversionary tactics had always worked quite well.  _   
“Of  _ you, _ trailing after him like a star-struck puppy.”  _ Apparently not on Captains of Gondor, though.  _

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, thinking furiously of all the times he had let his gaze linger too long on Faramir, Aragorn turned to face the older of brothers. He opened his mouth to explain himself, but Boromir’s hand raised high in the air stopped him. 

“I know that you care for him, and Eru knows that he deserves that.”    
“Of course I care for him! He is my steward, as are you! I care for you also!” Aragorn tried defending himself, but Boromir only shook his head, a curious sort of amusement flickering across his features.    
“But it is not me you want in your bed, is it?” Boromir asked, smirking when Aragorn looked down like a scolded stable boy. “It’s alright, don’t look so contrite. I enjoy women far more than I have ever enjoyed men. And Faramir… let’s say he would not be opposed, if the tales of the rangers are true.” At that, Aragorn looked up sharply. He went to say something again, but Boromir was not done yet. 

“If you want to love him, Aragorn, you have my blessing. But if you only want him to warm your bed and to kick him out in the morning-”   
“I would  _ never _ do such a thing!” The king protested, looking mortified at the mere suggestion. Boromir nodded.    
“Good. I would hate it if Gondor lost her king right after he had been found anew.” 

And with that, Boromir turned around and walked out, leaving a stunned Aragorn still standing by his desk. 

-&-

Three days later, and Boromir was once again seated at a late dinner. This time there were only the three of them - him, Faramir and Aragorn. And, infuriatingly, nothing had changed whatsoever. The two men were still staring at each other, not making even the tiniest move to get closer together, and Boromir was plainly  _ done _ with the whole situation. He could not recall a single instance when he had been more frustrated in his life. Watching the king following Faramir like a lost puppy looking for a new owner was almost as painful as seeing his brother looking at Aragorn as if he were Gondor’s new sun. 

Sighing, Boromir decided to start acting, not able to stand the tension permeating the air around him, almost thick enough to cut it with a knife. 

“Aragorn, I have missed you today during our sword practice,” Boromir said casually when Faramir’s tirade about taxes and sewers stopped for a brief moment. The king turned to him, surprise evident on his face.    
“Was it today?” He asked, frowning. Boromir fought his smirk. “I am sorry, I must have forgotten about it when the matter of the wall in the second level of the city came up.” To his credit, Aragorn had the decency to look sheepish and contrite at the same time.    
“Yea, we planned it for today, indeed.”    
“I really am terribly sorry. It’s just that Faramir had found a way to restore it without so many people involved-”    
“We could use Gimli’s help with it!” Faramir cut in, his voice excited.    
“Yes…” Aragorn nodded empathically. “It would save us some time, seeing as everyone is so busy repairing the damage in the lower level-”    
“It’s alright, Aragorn,” Boromir held up his hand to halt him. He did not necessarily want the king to justify his absence. He just wanted to change the topic of their bloody conversation - nobody had ever flirted with another man using taxes and sewers as a valid excuse to do so. 

“I really  _ am _ sorry,” Aragorn muttered. “We could go tomorrow perhaps?” At that, the older brother laughed.    
“Calm yourself, I am not Elrond, I will not scold you for not showing up,  _ my king,” _ he said, grinning when Aragorn’s expression brightened, the friendly poking lifting his spirits a bit. “I mean, it would be a lot nicer to give me a sign that you were not coming, but I managed to practice alone, and it was quite pleasant.” 

Faramir, who had been watching the exchange quietly till now, finally spoke up.    
“I am afraid that you will have to reschedule your practice for another time entirely. We have a delegation from Belfalas coming tomorrow, and I fear the meetings will last till the end of the week,” the young man announced, making Aragorn frown again.    
“A delegation? Why did I not know about this?” He asked, more surprised than angry. Faramir opened his mouth, then closed it again, and Boromir could see that his brother was running through the last few days in his memory, no doubt wondering how it was possible that the High King Elessar was not notified of such crucial detail. 

“Oh, cut it, Aragorn! If you had kept an eye on your calendar, you would know your schedule just fine,” he muttered, loud enough for his companions to hear. Faramir’s head jerked up, eyes wide.    
“But… he’s the  _ king, _ it is  _ my _ job to keep track of the meetings and inform him…”    
“Yea, yea, and you did. You wrote it down in his schedule. I know, I have checked it. The only thing he had to do was to actually read it,” Boromir said, looking pointedly at their king. Aragorn pouted, shrugging.    
“I must admit that I have been a little distracted as of late…”    
_ “A little distracted? _ ” Boromir barked out a laugh. “I would say your head was high up between clouds,  _ sire.”  _ He chuckled, shaking his head. Aragorn shrugged again. “It looks worse than when we were in Rivendell-”    
“We shall  _ not _ talk about our stay in Rivendell.” Aragorn cut in, giving an indignant huff. 

Grinning, Boromir looked up at his brother, seeing Faramir’s half-offended and half-curious expression.    
“Oh yes! ‘Twas the day! Our great king, ranger extraordinaire, was so entranced by a dancing Elf maiden that he completely ignored his path. He followed the lady through the forest, until the ground at his feet ended abruptly and he fell down into a river.”    
“It was  _ dark.  _ And it was a creek,” Aragorn mumbled, huffing.    
“A  _ deep _ creek, with quite some power to it.” Boromir laughed heartily, making Aragorn’s eyes narrow dangerously.    
“I got out of it… eventually.” He defended himself, crossing his arms in front of his chest, curling up in his chair almost sulkingly.    
“So you did. After that Elf… what was his name?” He asked innocently, knowing well that Aragorn would bite.    
“Haldir.”    
“After  _ Haldir _ handed you a branch.” Turning to look at his brother, Boromir went on. “I have never seen him so miserable, and I still don’t know whether it was because he could not observe his lady anymore, or because he got all wet!  At least Lord Elrond did not have to bend his ear about bathing anymore… all the mud had been washed away finally!” He concluded, provoking another scoff from Aragorn, who grumbled something indignantly under his nose. 

Faramir stared at him, mouth open, shock painted clearly across his features. Then his expression changed and Boromir was sure he would start defending their king.  Not wanting those two to get back on the high horse, he continued hurriedly.    
“But, I have to admit, my king, it was not nearly as bad as that time with you keeping watch the night before Moria, where you placed your blanket too close to that anthill…”    
“Enough,” Aragorn pleaded, looking up at him with begging eyes. Boromir’s smile widened.    
“It’s alright, I would not speak of the shriek that woke everyone up two hours later when the ants got too friendly,” he assured, reaching out and placing his hand on Aragorn’s shoulder in a soothing manner.  The king’s cheeks were slowly turning pink, and Boromir had to admit that it was a very fetching look. He hoped his little brother appreciated the view, at least.

Before he could add anything else, however, Aragorn cut in.    
“Shall we change the topic? How about that moment when you said that  _ Gondor needs no king?”  _ Elessar asked innocently, but there was an impish smile forming slowly on his lips. Before Boromir could say anything else, Faramir gasped audibly, his surprise turning into outright shock.    
“What did you say?” He asked softly, his voice barely there. Boromir raised his hands in a peaceful gesture, sitting up straighter.    
“In my defence, I on-”   
“There is  _ no defence!” _ Faramir interrupted him. In a blink of an eye, his whole posture changed, becoming angry, almost  _ furious. _

Aragorn, probably sensing that some kind of invisible line had been crossed, reached out and curled his fingers around one of Faramir’s wrists, his voice turning soothing.    
“He didn’t know me back then, Faramir,” he said slowly, but the young man shook his head.    
“It does not make it better! Knowing what Gondor needed, knowing that without a king this very city would perish, knowing what our father-” he stopped himself abruptly, swallowing hard. He grabbed his cup, downed the rest of the wine that was still warming at the bottom of it, then stood up. “Excuse me,” he muttered to a stunned Aragorn, then walked out.

Boromir sighed, leaning back in his chair, tipping his head and fighting the urge to roll his eyes. It would do good to talk about the ghosts of the past from time to time. Especially when one’s ghost was his own father. He glanced at Aragorn, who was still staring at the door behind which Faramir had disappeared, his face a mix of sadness and surprise.    
“That is still a touchy subject, it seems,” Boromir muttered, looking at the table, trying to decide whether to grab ale or more wine. Before he could make up his mind, however, the king turned his gaze to him, and in that single moment, Boromir was reminded why Aragorn was the one wearing the Winged Crown.    
_ “Well?” _ He asked imploringly, giving Boromir a stare so expectant, he could feel it all the way down in his  _ boots. _ Hastily, he stood up.    
“Alright! I shall talk to him…” he said, placatingly. Aragorn raised his eyebrows, still waiting for the right words. “...and apologize.” 

With a swift bow, Boromir went after his brother, muttering about kings and creeks and  _ insufferable rangers. _

-&-

By the time Boromir was walking up to Faramir’s doors, his brother was already inside. After a careful knock that brought no answer, Boromir carefully pushed the heavy wing open and stepped into the bedchambers, looking around. Faramir was lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, his hands crossed and pillowing his head. Boromir closed the door and went to him, sitting on the edge of the surprisingly soft mattress. He ran his hand over it, remembering how, when they had been kids, Faramir’s bed had always seemed a bit more rough and hard whenever Boromir had flung himself on it to wake his brother up. 

He smiled at the memory, and then, before he could start wondering about who exactly made Faramir change his mattress to this far more comfortable piece, he looked up at his brother.    
“I am sorry,” he said gently, hoping that Faramir would look at him. “I should not have said that…”   
“No, you should not have,” the younger man said slowly, still staring up.    
“You know well what my opinion of kings was back then.”    
“I know,” Faramir muttered. “But Elessar is different. He is a  _ real _ king, Boromir,” he added, finally glancing at his brother. Boromir smiled.    
“You like him a lot, don’t you?” 

At that, Faramir directed his gaze upwards again, but a faint blush spread over his cheeks, visible even in the meager light brought by the few candles that were illuminating the room. Boromir’s smile grew.    
“Come now, brother! I can still remember how your rooms looked like when we were little!” He said,  poking his finger into Faramir’s knee. His brother sighed, irritated, then moved his leg away.    
“I don’t know of what you speak.”   
“Right. I bet you still have all those drawings of yours.” Boromir snickered, getting up suddenly. 

It took him two steps, and he was standing in front of Faramir’s bookshelf. He let his gaze travel over the old tomes, some of them belonging to the library, some from his brother’s private collection. There was one book that stood out, bound in red leather, the title of it glinting with gold letters written in the tongue of the Elves. Boromir raised one eyebrow seeing it, knowing well that there was only one person in the whole of Minas Tirith that could have gifted such a book to his baby brother. 

_ What would it take to push those two fools together?  _

Shaking his head in amusement, he let his eyes travel lower, until he noticed a scrap of parchment sticking out from underneath a white tome. He pushed the book aside, then grabbed the small stack lying underneath, bringing it with him to the bed. Next to him, Faramir groaned, throwing one arm over his eyes.    
“I knew it!  You would never toss out a parchment, no matter how dusty and insignificant it was!” Boromir grinned even wider, then started to flip through the pages. He paused on one, a very scrawny figure wearing a crown depicted on it, another standing nearby, holding a sword.  He looked at it, sentiment filling his lungs until it was hard to breathe. His brother might have been ten back then… maybe eleven. 

“I always wondered why you were so bent on drawing the king,” he said musingly, hearing another groan from Faramir. “But later I understood that you wanted the lore to become true, for all those legends to become alive again. There was never a good man for this position… not enough to fill the boots of the kings of old, aye?” He asked, glancing at his brother. Faramir nodded, his face still half-covered by his arm. The blush was deeper now, reaching down his neck, and Boromir chuckled. 

“Aragorn is a very noble man, Faramir. Far better than this rotten city deserves…” He trailed off, taking another picture into his hand. There was the king again, scribbled in scrawny lines, the crown present and almost too obvious on his head. And next to him, there was another person, this time with his hair curly, a book in his hand, a staff in another. The king had one hand hooked around the other person’s shoulders, and Boromir had no trouble recognizing who the person was. His brother had been drawing himself in some of those pictures, when he was not busy drawing the king in various heroic poses. 

He flipped through the pages some more, finding the one he was looking for, the one that he had stuck in his memory for some reason. The people were the same, the king and Faramir at his side, but this time, they were holding hands. They were both dressed in - badly drawn - regalia and there were tiny pink petals flowing down from thin air.    
“Look! You even got the Gondor’s wedding customs right with those flowers!” Boromir exclaimed happily, raising his hand and showing the picture to Faramir. The younger man lifted his arm just a fraction, just enough to glance at the picture, before he was turning around with a groan, burying his head under the pillow. 

“See? It’s you and the king… it seems to me you have loved him even before you knew him. And you love him still, don’t you? Even more now?” Boromir asked, his voice getting gentler. Faramir scoffed, the sound muted by the pillow.    
“Why are you doing this? We were just  _ kids _ back then, brother. Let it be…”    
“I am doing this,” Boromir started, placing the drawings aside, keeping only the wedding picture in his grasp, “because you won’t.  Aragorn is a good man, he is a good king, and you have dreamed about him for your whole life. Why not try to get what you want?” He asked softly, his gaze sliding to the drawing for a moment.    
“He is the  _ king!” _ Faramir said defensively, finally emerging from under his pillow. Boromir smiled. 

“So what? Pretend he is a stable boy, if it helps! Go and flirt with him!” At this suggestion, Faramir visibly twitched.    
“One does not simply  _ flirt _ with the  _ king! _ Besides, you know it is far more complicated than that!” He said, his tone bordering on exasperated. Boromir frowned.    
“Why? You did not seem to have such problems with the rangers…”    
“Rangers? Did you just really compare Elessar to a  _ ranger?” _ Faramir asked, aghast, and his brother could not stop the laughter that bubbled up inside him.    
“Faramir, by gods, Aragorn  _ was _ a ranger himself! Or have you forgotten about it?” He asked, raising his eyebrows, but his tone was light. Faramir rolled his eyes.   
“It’s different!”    
“Different  _ how? _ Come on, after all those years you must at least know how to invite a man to your bed!” 

Faramir’s response was grumbled under his nose, and Boromir had to press for a repeat.   
“What was that?”   
“I said, it’s not how it was done between the rangers…” The younger man frowned, sitting up on the bed and letting his gaze get stuck in the covers. “There was never any flirting… you just sort of… moved your bedroll next to another guy. If he was interested, things… _happened.”_ Faramir finished, waving his hands in front of him. Boromir nodded eagerly.   
“Yes, so now you have to move your bedroll next-”  
“No.” Faramir stopped him sharply. _“No.”_   
“But-”  
_“No!_ He is the king!” _Oh sweet stubbornness…_ Boromir was going to get mad living with those two! “I cannot just… _no.”_   
“Alright,” Boromir said, standing up. “What you _can_ do is invite him over for a wine tomorrow evening, though.” When Faramir failed to respond to that, save for raising his eyebrows, Boromir continued. “You will, or I’ll show him this here beautiful picture!” Boromir waved the parchment around, then dashed for the door. 

Faramir got out of bed so quickly the covers fell to the floor in a flurry of blankets, but his brother was quicker. He disappeared down the corridor, laughing maniacally and holding the picture high in the air, before Faramir even had a chance to get to the door. With a groan, he went back inside, locking his door this time. 

-&-

The next supper was awkward. They were once again seated at the same table, but this time, the conversation was somehow lacking its usual cheer and excitement. Aragorn had tried to talk to Faramir a few times, but the younger of the brothers seemed distracted and deep in thought, so the king let him be. Once they were almost done eating, and Faramir cast yet another glance at Boromir, Elessar seemed to finally have had enough of the weirdness. He looked from one brother to another - getting a shrug from the older and an absent minded frown from the younger - before he turned to Faramir.    
“Is there something troubling you, my dear friend?” He asked gently. Boromir smirked. Before his brother could open his mouth, he coughed imploringly, raising his eyebrows pointedly. Faramir opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again.    
“‘Tis nothing, my king, only… a matter arose concerning the northern border of Ithilien that I should work on…” he trailed off, not sure what else to say. 

It was not exactly a lie - Faramir never lied to anyone, much less to his king \- the matter in question was very much real. But it was not dangerous or time-sensitive, and he could as well try to solve it in the morning. Elessar looked interested, though, and Faramir glanced at his brother. Boromir was staring at him, his mouth forming a small smile, eyes glinting in the candlelight. 

“Maybe I could help you with it?” The king suggested, bringing Faramir’s gaze back to him.  “I still have one matter that is waiting for me on my desk, but once I’m done, we can meet up and discuss… whatever it is,” he said, sounding a bit too excited. Faramir stared at him for a moment, not really seeing the invitation for what it was, until Boromir cleared his throat rather loudly.    
“I think,” he said, tearing his eyes away from Faramir and looking at the king, “that it is a splendid idea! We both know that my brother is overworked, and the two of you could get it done in no time!” He said, grinning when Aragorn nodded along.    
“Yes. Shall we meet in an hour?” The king proposed, grabbing his wine, waiting for Faramir’s answer.    
“But…” Faramir’s eyes opened wide. “But… it’s a mere trifle! Nothing to concern yourself over, sire!”    
“Nonsense!” Elessar exclaimed, shaking his head good-naturedly. “If it is serious enough to keep you quiet during our supper, I’d risk saying that it’s at least troublesome!” 

The rest of the supper was quick and surprisingly quiet. Right afterwards, Faramir went straight to his bedchambers, intent on making the room presentable, since it served as his study and his bedroom at the same time. He straightened the covers and put the various books lying around away, then picked up some items of clothing that were lingering in the corners. After he was done, his gaze traveled to the stack of drawings Boromir had left on his bedside table the night before. He grabbed them and went to shove them under the tome of Ithilien legends, where they had rested through all those years, when he paused. 

Faramir knew well that his brother had still been talking to Elessar when he had left the dining hall. He did not think that Boromir would tell the king any incriminating details, but he could not be sure whether he would not hint at the bookshelf where he had found the drawings. The best option would be to get rid of them, but Boromir was right about his younger brother, too - he would never throw out a parchment, no matter how useless it was. 

Sighing in frustration, the drawings still in his hand, Faramir looked around the room. There was no place to hide them inconspicuously - he knew that they might sit over the maps for some time this evening, which would mean that it could get chilly. That would require him to take out a cloak or a blanket, and he would have to open his closet to do that. He could not risk the drawings falling out. He could not just leave a stack of them lying innocently on the bedside table, either, in case his brother had told Elessar even the smallest bit of the whole affair. Maybe he could… 

Huffing, irritated, Faramir sat down at his desk, looking around, when an idea came to him. He glanced at one of the shelves put under the tabletop, big enough to store whole books and maps, not to mention a few pieces of parchment. They were meant to keep some extra paper at hand, but since he had always preferred to keep a stack of it lying on the desk, he could use the space. 

Hurriedly, he pushed aside a few rolled-up maps and a small notebook, before he placed the drawings there, face-down not to draw anyone’s attention. Satisfied with his plan, knowing that the best hiding spot was always in plain sight, Faramir went to change into a more comfortable set of dark leggings and a shirt. It still bore the Tree of Gondor, embroidered in silver thread on both sides of the collar, but it was looser than the robes he was wearing, and would probably make him feel better. 

-&-

When Aragorn appeared at Faramir’s door a little bit over an hour later, he was ready to just sit down and relax. He was not sure how he felt about studying maps and borderlines at that time, but the prospect of spending the evening with the Prince of Ithilien was more than compelling. He had even brought a bottle of wine with him, sweet as Faramir himself… 

The king sighed, rubbing his forehead. The feelings he had been harboring for his second steward were starting to get unbearable. Especially now, after Boromir’s talk had made him believe that there was a chance Faramir would be interested. It was not an entirely laughable notion, either - Aragorn had caught the younger man staring at him a few times. There had always been something odd in his gaze, something that Aragorn’s heart chose to interpret as longing in the wee hours of lonely spent nights. If there was a chance, if there was any possibility of them being together - somehow - the king was ready to jump the occasion and hold onto it with both hands. 

Curling his fingers, he knocked softly at the door, side-glancing his personal guards, who were busy assuming their positions in front of Faramir’s door. Elessar rolled his eyes in exasperation - he would have to do something to stop this madness. There were no assassins in the court, and he was getting fairly tired of the guards trailing after him at every hour of the day.  They could be posted at the entrance to the wing, thus guarding both, him and Faramir. It could work out splendidly and give him some of the much needed privacy. He was ready to order his soldiers to do just that, when the door in front of him opened, and Faramir greeted him with a quick bow and a smile. 

The bow Aragorn would get rid of, but the smile made him feel all warm inside. He stepped in, turning around when one of the guards twitched as if he wanted to follow.    
“You are relieved for the night,” Aragorn said, raising his hand to halt any protests.    
“Sire?” The young guard raised his eyes to his king, confusion pouring out of him in waves. Aragorn huffed.    
“This must be your first day on duty, is it not?”    
“I… Yes, my king,” the youngster mumbled, lowering his gaze. Aragorn chuckled, eyeing the other guard, who was standing there with the beginnings of a smirk forming on his lips.    
“And I take it Beregond has told you to keep me within your eyesight the whole time, has he not?”    
“Yes, my king.”    
“‘Tis a shame he didn’t tell you that I hate it when two armed men are breathing down my neck.” Aragorn gave in to the urge to roll his eyes this time. “What’s your name?”    
“Velen, my king.”    
“Velen! You are doing an admirable job following your captain’s orders, but there is one person whose orders you should follow even more scrupulously -  _ me. _ Now, you can both go and have a nice, restful night, or, if it pleases you more, you can stand guard at the entrance to this wing. But  _ stop _ lingering outside these here doors, or I will have you out of this job come sunlight,” Aragorn said, putting on his most serious face.

Velen paled, his eyes darted to his companion for a second, before he was bowing low and walking away, uncaring whether the other guard followed. Aragorn smirked, looking at the retreating figure.   
“Do I have to do this with every new soldier in this unit?” He asked aloud, glancing at the remaining guard. The man just grinned.   
“Beregond is a very stubborn man, sire,” he said, bowing, before he walked away. Without checking, Aragorn knew they would be standing at the doors to the royal wing. Sighing with contentment, he finally turned around and closed the door behind him, looking at Faramir, at last able to take him fully in. 

His steward was wearing a pair of leggings of an indiscernible dark color and a cream shirt that was at least a size too big. He was barefoot, too, and for a moment, Aragorn felt terribly overdressed. Faramir did not seem to mind, though, bowing again and waving his hand at the desk.   
“Faramir,” the king asked slowly, “we have known each other for a long time now… could we dispose of the bows? And the titles?” At that, the prince looked up, confused.   
“Sire?”   
“See? That is what I’m talking about… Actually, could we get rid of any formalities? I do not wish to be your king when we are in private like this,” Aragorn said, opening his arms wide, indicating the room they were in. Faramir frowned.   
“What… what do you wish to be, then?” Aragorn could see just how hard it was for him not to add that little _my king_ at the end of his question.   
“Colleagues? Friends?” _Lovers?_   
“As you wish… Aragorn,” Faramir murmured, his voice way too quiet to Aragorn’s liking, but the way he spoke his name was Aragorn’s reward for coming here. Now he could sit down and ponder maps, and borderlines, and forests… 

“So, what has been troubling you so, Faramir?” The king asked, coming to stand by the desk, looking down at the few maps laid out on the top of it. Faramir went after him.    
“Maybe you’d like to sit down?” He proposed, pointing at a chair placed right next to the one he usually used. Aragorn nodded, seating himself, then placed the bottle on the desk, looking at it imploringly.    
“I have commandeered this fine drink for this evening,” he said, smiling, “maybe it could help us deal with the politics?”    
“Undoubtedly. I do not have glasses here, though,” Faramir replied, eyeing the wine. Aragorn shook his head.    
“I do not think we need them, do you? Or have you forgotten how it was to drink water right from a fresh stream and your wine straight from a bottle?” The king grinned, grabbing the wine and opening it. Faramir looked down for a moment, and almost endearing expression all over his face, before he nodded and sat down in the second chair. 

“Well then,” Aragorn muttered, taking a swing, before he held the bottle out to Faramir. The prince took it gingerly, almost hesitatingly. Using his newly freed hand, Aragorn lifted one corner of the first map lying on the top, feeling that he needed to keep his fingers occupied. The urge to touch Faramir instead was almost overwhelming, especially that the younger man looked almost as if he was blushing, a thing no doubt fabricated by the candlelight flickering around them.    
“There is a matter of the northern border of Ithilien,” Faramir started, pointing an area on the map with his free hand. “There is no stream or rock formation to demark a clear line, so it makes it harder to distinguish between what we have to take under our protection and what we should avoid.”    
“And the people living there? Do they not know where the lines of their properties run?” Aragorn asked, studying the map. Faramir was right, the borders ran through the thick of the forest, far away from any streams or rivers, and certainly without any rocks or mountains to help.    
“That is exactly the problem. There are not many settlements there, and those that are, all claim a different story,” he said, taking out another map. “Here,” he ran his finger gingerly over the dusty paper, carefully indicating the almost-faded ink. Aragorn leaned closer. “One of them says that this is the rightful border, but another places it here, almost two hundred yards to the north,” Faramir moved his finger, tapping it on the spot he was talking about. 

Aragorn nodded along, thinking about how to solve this. It was not that difficult to just sign a decree that would claim any imaginary line as one belonging to Ithilien and, by proxy, to Gondor itself. But there were different ways to place the line and some of them had more advantages than the others. 

This was going to be a long evening. 

-&-

Almost two hours later, they were still leaning over the maps - five of them, this time - and various books Faramir had retrieved from the library. Some of the lore had come in handy, describing the land in enough detail to provide them with a few answers, and Aragorn was almost ready to make up his mind about where to draw the new lines. That was exactly when Faramir’s body decided that he needed a bit of relief and he excused himself quickly, promising to be back in a moment. The king nodded absentmindedly, already planning out the border. 

He only needed a quill and a piece of paper to draw the rough outline, and since Faramir had just walked out, he was left to his own devices. Looking around, not eager to waste a fresh sheet of nearly perfectly white paper, he started to rummage through the contents of the desk, hoping for a discarded scrap he could use. When he spotted a dusty stack right under the tabletop, he grabbed the first few, bringing them out. Out of habit, he checked whether the other side was not filled with anything - doodling the new layout of Ithilien on a half-finished peace treaty would not be a good idea. Aragorn flipped the page around. And stared. 

There, at the center of it, in a series of rushed lines, a figure was depicted. It was not a very detailed drawing, but the Winged Crown of Gondor was easy to spot, and so, he knew immediately who he was looking at. The other figure was pretty easy to guess, too, seeing as it was wearing robes with the White Tree - here decidedly black - scribbled on them, and was holding a bow in his hand. 

Smiling, Aragorn let himself browse through the remaining pages, taking in each and every drawing. There were ones where the king was alone, there were also ones when he was sitting on the throne, with what looked like the whole court kneeling at his feet. In most cases, the man with the bow - or sometimes, holding a book - was on them, too. Grinning to himself, Aragorn reached under the tabletop to retrieve the rest of the stack, browsing through those, too. 

There were more drawings of the king, one of them showing him kicking a man’s backside, and Aragorn could not help but chuckle when the man in question reminded him about Denethor. He had the same hair and the same stern expression, and really, the fact that the king was apparently dethroning him was saying a lot. Grinning stupidly, Aragorn went through the rest of the drawings, pausing when he finally found one with him and Faramir in a garden. The flowers were meticulously depicted, drawn with the tiniest of details, colored in bright pinks and reds, green grass creating a sea under their feet. But that was not what made Aragorn stare at it - they were kissing in that garden.  _ Kissing,  _ with their hands joined and kept securely between them, with the sun shining down on them and the birds flying around, looking almost magical. 

A curious sort of warmth started to spread through his body, and Aragorn knew well that it had nothing to do with the sweet wine they had been sipping during their battle with borderlines. He almost wanted to take a fresh sheet of paper and draw something of his own, maybe add another chapter to this beautiful story…  Granted, it would not be as charming as Faramir’s drawings, but he was sure he could make his prince blush when he was done… 

Footsteps coming closer tore Aragorn out of his musings, and he looked up, spotting Faramir coming back into the room.    
“You have quite a talent, my dear friend!” The king praised, making the younger man frown. Faramir shut the door behind him and stepped closer, only to stop dead in his tracks, his eyes opening wider.    
“I can explain,” he said hastily, his gaze flickering between the drawings and his king’s face. Aragorn frowned, taking in the suddenly stiff posture of the prince.    
“Are you alright?” He asked slowly, but Faramir remained where he was, his eyes, if possible, getting even wider.    
“It is not what you think! I… The drawings… Boromir found them…” Faramir stumbled over the words, averting his eyes and looking progressively more distressed. Aragorn could not help himself - letting the papers fall down from his hand and onto the desk, he walked over to the prince. Ducking his head down a bit he tried to catch Faramir’s gaze, but when it brought no reaction, he straightened back up and reached out. 

Drawing Faramir into his arms was so easy, Aragorn wondered how was it possible that he had not been doing it since the end of the war. The way they fit together, head to toe, was a feeling as welcome as the heat of the younger man’s body against his. The only thing that did not work as smoothly were Faramir’s hands which had come up to cover his face. Aragorn hugged him tighter, confusion mixing with fear that he had somehow offended the prince by bringing attention to the drawings.   
“Faramir,” he whispered, pressing his lips quickly to the unruly hair right behind Faramir’s ear. “Did I do something wrong?”   
“No…” Faramir’s response was reluctant, and Aragorn hated it. “These are… these are old, I was but a boy when I made them…” He explained slowly, softly, his voice barely there. “I did not mean to offend you with them,” he added, almost as an afterthought. Aragorn’s frown deepened.   
“Offend me?” He scoffed. “Dear heart, the only thing that may offend me is that I had not known about their existence until this evening!” He assured, pulling away slightly. 

He wrapped his fingers around Faramir’s wrists and gently pulled his hands away.    
“There.”    
“My king?” Faramir breathed out, confused, seeing the broad smile stretching Aragorn’s lips. Faramir looked so irresistible, so beautiful in the candlelight dancing in his hair and making it into a fiery halo, with shadows playing over his features and accentuating every angle, that Aragorn could not stop himself. He leaned in, slowly enough to let Faramir draw back in case he didn’t want to proceed, then pressed their lips together. It was short and tentative, the smallest of kisses, not enough to warrant the swarm of butterflies that sparked into life inside Aragorn’s chest, but the king had no time to dwell on that. 

Soon, too soon in his opinion, Faramir was drawing away from him, not going far but placing a big enough distance to enable their minds the ability to form coherent thoughts. The distance also meant that Aragorn instantly felt cold, and he tried to suppress the shiver that ran down his spine. He did not want to have Faramir pulling away, certainly not anymore than he had already done.    
“I am sorry,” Aragorn said softly. “If I crossed some line here, I want to apo-”   
“No.” Faramir shook his head, and it seemed that his whole body trembled with the motion. Aragorn’s hands itched to gather him close again. “I just… I don’t understand…” A set of nearly-black eyes rose up to meet him, and Aragorn felt his knees weaken.    
“I shall explain then, but let us sit down first,” he proposed, to which Faramir nodded quickly. Aragorn was still holding his hands, so he used the grip to tug the prince along, leading them to sit on the edge of Faramir’s bed. 

The king tried not to be optimistic with the evident lack of protest from his prince, but it was hard to tell his stupid heart to calm itself. 

Once they were both seated, he half-turned to face Faramir, still holding on to his hands, feeling strangely better while doing so.    
“Faramir… when I said that your drawings didn’t offend me, it was true,” he started carefully, observing his prince intently. “In fact, they please me greatly, for they show the image of my dreams that I could only wish would come true,” he added, smiling when Faramir jerked his head up, eyes staring right at him.    
“What are you saying, my lord?”    
“Aragorn.”    
“What are you saying, Aragorn?” Faramir pressed, biting his lip, a gesture which Aragorn found entirely too endearing.  _ Now or never, _ the king thought.    
“Can I kiss you again?” He asked softly. The wait that proceeded was one of the longest in Aragorn’s life. 

Finally, almost dreamily, Faramir nodded slowly, his gaze turned down. Aragorn would not have it. He tucked his fingers under his prince’s chin and lifted it carefully. Faramir’s eyes were wide, dark like two pools of moonlit water somewhere deep in the mountains, and Aragorn could not help himself when he leaned in and pressed their mouths together again. It was not a chaste kiss this time, though - it morphed quickly, all the passion Aragorn felt coming to the front and igniting flames within him. He licked his way into Faramir’s mouth, gently but steadily, liquid pleasure trickling down his spine when his prince gave a small moan at that. 

Their hands had suddenly found life of their own, stroking over arms and necks, rubbing careful fingers down their chests. Faramir was tentative at first, but with every move he grew bolder, forgetting all about titles and etiquette, focusing instead on tracing the lines of Aragorn’s shoulders through the heavy tunic he was wearing. The touch was enough to ricochet with wild tingles all over his body, and the king groaned, pushing up for more, his back arching to give his prince a better angle to work with. 

It took nothing at all to guide Faramir down, a slow crawl across the bed and a few well-placed fingers, and the younger man found himself under Aragorn, their bodies in a curious alignment that had no right to feel as pleasurable as it was. Unbidden, hands slipped between the fabric covering them, Faramir’s hesitatingly, withdrawing as soon as they encountered naked skin. Aragorn could not let that happen, not when his insides were slowly but surely turning into molten lava. He grabbed the retreating arms and brought them closer again, sighing when he felt Faramir’s fingers worming their way under the tunic, rucking it up in the process.    
“Ah, Faramir,” Aragorn murmured, breaking away in need of air, panting heavily as he let his forehead rest on the prince’s shoulder. Faramir paused, and Aragorn could tell without looking that he was frowning right now. “Don’t stop, meleth nîn,” he whispered encouragingly, not sure if Faramir possessed enough knowledge of the Tongue of the Elves to understand the whole meaning. 

He had given Faramir the red book, the one written in Sindarin and resting proudly on the shelf, in hopes of brightening his prince’s day. It had been a truly gloomy time back then, and the gift had visibly pleased the younger man. It was a tome of poetry, mostly consisting of old Elvish tales, but they were all romantic to the point of being cheesy, and Aragorn knew that Faramir’s gentle side would appreciate it as much as his mind would appreciate the challenge the language presented. 

He only hoped that his prince had had enough time to study it to understand whatever was to come out of Aragorn’s mouth, because he was losing the coherency of his own tongue, and losing it  _ fast.  _

Thankfully, whether Faramir understood the latter part or not, it did not hinder his knowledge of the Common Speech. His fingers stayed where they were, lightly grazing bare skin and driving Aragorn absolutely mad with anticipation. He took a deep breath to slow down a little, but all he achieved was getting a noseful of Faramir’s scent. Shivering with recognition - his prince always smelled of dust and paper, of leather and hyacinths, which were used to make blue ink he so favored - Aragorn let his own hands slip beneath the loose shirt Faramir was wearing. The younger man gave a violent shudder when Aragorn’s fingers splayed over his abdomen, and suddenly, all of the king’s control flew out of the window. 

He lowered his body, moaning brokenly when his arousal met a responding one through the many layers -  _ too many layers  _ \- of clothing they were wearing. He would have disrobed them both, lay his prince out like a feast and taste him for hours, but there was simply no time. His body started to act without conscious thought or any command, and soon, he was rocking forward, canting his hips as much as he could without moving from the spot, effectively rubbing himself against Faramir. 

The prince did not seem to mind - if anything, he encouraged him even more, wrapping both of his arms around the small of Aragorn’s back and holding him as close as he could. That only added wood to the already roaring fire, and the king leaned in again, kissing him deeply, trembling when Faramir sucked on his tongue before stroking it with his own. Just as he was wondering how was it possible to feel so much without dying, Faramir broke away, his lips skidding to the side and traveling right to Aragorn’s ear. He gave it a small bite, something that took the king’s breath away completely, and whispered a sweet little  _ Aragorn.  _

The king came with a whimper, pushing his face into Faramir’s shoulder, trembling and shaking all over, his hips rocking up in chase of more pleasure. His prince was not far behind, panting sweetly right into his ear, before a small breathy moan broke loose, his fingers clawing at Aragorn’s back, almost as if he could scratch him through the soft material of the tunic. 

They did not immediately part, slowly regaining their breath and coherent thought, breaking away only when Aragorn slid to the side, stretching right next to Faramir. He kept one arm thrown across his prince’s chest, marvelling at how the wetness spreading through his leggings did not bother him at all. In any other circumstances he would be getting up, cleaning himself to avoid questionable stains, but right there and then, he felt the most comfortable he had in a long while, and he was loath to move even one finger. 

Faramir hummed next to him, almost as if he was trying to clear his throat, and Aragorn looked up. The prince’s hair was a mess, mussed from the pillows and from Aragorn’s wandering hands. His clothes were in disarray, too, and Aragorn felt stupidly proud for being the cause of that state of things. But, Faramir’s eyes started to turn sad, and Aragorn felt an unpleasant shiver running down his spine and settling like ice in his gut.  _ Had he been too rough? Too quick? Was he wrong about the whole thing? Did he- _   
“What happens now?” Thankfully, Faramir decided to speak first, before Aragorn could start digging himself a figurative grave. But the voice was too soft, too…  _ despondent. _ The king winced. “My king?”    
“Whatever you wish to happen,” he answered, the words trembling out of him tentatively. “I cannot say that I set out here tonight with this in my mind, but I would be lying if I said that I have never thought about it,” Aragorn murmured carefully. “I have, you know? Quite a lot,” he added, just to be sure that the meaning would not get lost somewhere between them. 

“Why?” The prince asked, barely audible. Aragorn could not stand the uncertainty anymore. He propped himself up on one elbow, waiting for Faramir to look at him.    
“I thought it would be obvious by now, but I do not mind putting it into words,” he said, “I love you Faramir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor, Prince of Ithilien.” 

There was a moment of utter silence, a few seconds when Faramir’s eyes went wide with surprise, then got too misty too fast.  Not wanting him to lose the battle with his emotions,  Aragorn leaned forward quickly, capturing his mouth in a firm, reassuring kiss, which was stopped a few moments later by a choked laughter escaping Faramir. Aragorn leaned back, raising his eyebrows at the sudden change of mood, not minding it in the slightest. The prince looked at him and dissolved into giggles.    
“Think what may brother would say seeing us now!” He said, barely holding down his mirth. Aragorn grinned.    
“He’d say that we were both blind fools and that he had known all along, probably.”    
“I know. I think we owe him a bottle of wine…”    
“Well,” Aragorn started, his eyes slipping over Faramir’s face and chest, then darting back up. “I’d say he can wait till tomorrow to hear the news, don’t you?” 

-&-

They went to sleep together, rolling around for a time, kissing first hungrily, then gently.  Aragorn was not sure when they fell asleep exactly, only that he had woken up in the wee hours of the morning, to the meager light falling through the windows. Faramir was asleep beside him, the skin on his chest almost too pale in the tentative lighting. The blanket had ridden low on his prince’s body, revealing their state of nakedness - brought by yesterday’s fumbling and wandering hands. They had both grown too tired to make it to round two, but they had managed to disrobe each other. It was for the better, really, for  Faramir had turned out to be as hot as a furnace, his body warming the king through the night. 

But now the prince was shivering slightly with each gentle blow of the breeze dancing in the drafty room, and Aragorn slid closer, grabbing the blanket and pulling it higher, covering the skin he would much rather kiss instead.  He  _ couldn’t. _ Faramir needed the rest, and even if Aragorn could happily wake him up with his hands and tongue, he knew that the young man had been far too tired lately to even consider that.

And so, the king settled back down, one hand slipping around Faramir’s waist, holding him close. He fell back asleep when he felt a small shuffling move and a storm of unruly hair tucking itself under his chin. 

-&-

When Aragorn woke up again, the sun was shining brightly through the windows, making him squeeze his eyes tightly shut. He moved back on instinct,  quite displeased with the call of Anor that had apparently summoned the next day. While he shuffled away, his back encountered a wall of solid warmth, and  he sighed in pleasure, remembering who was spooned up behind him .  Faramir muttered something unintelligible, one arm sneaking around to hold the king close, and Aragorn could not help himself when he pressed back harder, aligning their bodies from head to toe. 

He hummed appreciatively when he felt the hard heat pushing into his backside and, not thinking much about it, he rocked his hips, drawing forth a raspy moan from Faramir. The prince’s fingers scratched over Aragorn’s abdomen, the sensation of this little, mindless, possessive gesture making the king shiver, and he moved again, making a slow circle with his hips. He felt more awake now, though his mind was quickly turning hazy as all his passion traveled south, filling his groin fast enough to make his breath hitch. 

“Faramir…” Aragorn mumbled out quietly, cursing himself when he felt his prince tense. Faramir fell eerily still behind him, his arm loosening its hold, and Aragorn groaned in protest. “Please… don’t stop,” he asked in a whisper, pushing back, hoping to bring some of that unchecked passion he had only glimpsed at yesterday. But Faramir stayed where he was, his breathing picking up slightly.    
“Aragorn.” His name was but a murmur, and the king arched his back when a shiver racked his whole body.    
“Go on,” he encouraged, moving his hips again, but Faramir started to lean away, and Aragorn almost whined. Feeling the hand slipping from around him, the king caught it quickly, pinning it in place right over his heart. The prince went very quiet, before a small whisper slipped from his lips. 

“What would you have me do?” The words were tentative, but not unpracticed, and Aragorn briefly wondered just how many times had Faramir spoken them before. _ Had it been under the Ithilien moon? Or covered by dense bushes? Maybe hidden in the overgrown grass of Pelennor?  _

He could not help but picture himself in those places, with Faramir snuggled up against him, pressing him into the ground, taking him slowly in the moonlight or hard and fast between tall grass because time was scarce. 

“I would have you inside me,” Aragorn answered the question, squeezing Faramir’s hand reflexively when the young man jerked behind him. He could feel the hesitation pouring out from his prince, the slight tremble of his hand more than noticeable now. Faramir’s fingers spasmed minutely, then splayed wide over Aragorn’s skin, and the king sighed in contentment.    
“Are you certain?” The younger man asked, voice so quiet and serious one would think he was attempting to speak to some kind of a deity. Aragorn nodded, bringing Faramir’s hand up to his lips, kissing the palm gently, before he let his tongue play over the surface. 

When the king drew one of his fingers into his mouth and laved at it, Faramir could not help the shaky moan that left him in a rush. Only yesterday, his seemingly life-long infatuation with the King of Gondor had still been in the realm of fantasy, and now, the king himself was sucking on his fingertips, his body pushed up against Faramir’s front, hot and unyielding and  _ oh so delicious… _

He could barely stop his own hips from thrusting forward, somehow still feeling that he needed to maintain some kind of control over his instincts. This was Elessar lying flush against him, panting through his nose and rocking his ass back mindlessly, and the prince had trouble comprehending it all.  Had it been any other ranger, on any other day, they would have been making good use of the balm stashed on Faramir’s bedside table by now. But this was no mere ranger, this was his  _ king _ and Faramir still hesitated to take what his body demanded of him with growing urgency. 

Aragorn was so incredibly _warm,_ it was a surprise the prince had not caught fire already. From where their calves brushed together, to that sweetly scented spot right behind his ear, the king was a solid mass of heat, and Faramir was slowly losing his resolve. Aragorn’s clever tongue started to tickle the delicate skin between his fingers, and he gave a tiny whisper of _“please”_ and the prince knew that there was nothing he would not give him, even if it meant turning his life upside down in the process. With the images of his nights under the Ithilien sky, with his mind twisting the pictures until all of the men he had ever lain with had suddenly resembled his king, Faramir pulled his fingers away and levered himself up on one elbow. He tugged gently, until Aragorn was lying on his back, his handsome face turning to look at the prince with eyes gone nearly black. 

Momentarily distracted, Faramir let his gaze travel lower, over the sun-kissed neck and the surprisingly pale chest, down until he encountered a trail of dark hair leading down from the navel. The rest of the king’s body was covered by the gray blanket -  _ his own blanket, the one they had wrapped themselves in the night before  _ \- and Faramir’s gaze went up again. A surge of protectiveness washed over him, telling him to cover the vulnerable body and hold on tight, but he stopped himself short. Aragorn had made his desires clear, and while Faramir was not yet convinced that it was not just a very pleasurable dream, he was ready to fulfill both of their secret wishes. 

Raising one hand, he placed it tentatively on Aragorn’s neck, leaning in when the king inclined his head and asked silently for a kiss. Their lips met with tentative pressure, which soon morphed into something deeper and more heated. In the midst of it all, it was somehow a shocking discovery when Faramir realized that the High King Elessar had a morning breath like any other man in the world - not that it fazed him in the slightest. He was getting slowly drunk on Aragorn’s scent, the sweetness of the pipe smoke lingering on his skin as surely as the sharp tang of herbs did. And when Aragorn gave an approving groan and  his fingers found their way into Faramir’s hair, the prince was sure he would not live through the morning. The sensation of nails scraping over his scalp and brushing through the undoubtedly messy hair was so sensual, it was almost like tiny bolts of lightning dancing across his skin, just to thunder down his spine and pool in his groin as liquid heat. 

He let his hand slip lower, from Aragorn’s neck to his chest, drawing invisible patterns with his fingers that made the king shiver and arch up into the caress. He was so wonderfully responsive that Faramir had to break the kiss in search for some much needed air. Something occurred to him then, something regarding the sensitivity of his king’s skin, and he gave voice to his concern, whispering softly against Aragorn’s mouth.    
“Have you done it before?”    
Aragorn’s eyes popped open, before he closed them again slowly, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.    
“I have, but…” he paused, swallowing heavily. His voice was scratchy, way too deep to just be sleep-ridden, and Faramir felt his cheeks redden, knowing that he was the cause of that.    
“But?”    
“It was a long time ago…” Aragorn clarified, looking at him again. 

Whatever had showed on Faramir’s face in that moment - surprise, delight, or a tiny spark of protectiveness - it made the king smile softly.   
“The Elves do not hold the same standards as Men do, Faramir,” Aragorn murmured, and the prince frowned. 

_ Elves?  _ His mind automatically went to the only Elf he knew that had a close relationship with Aragorn.    
“Legolas?” Faramir asked tentatively, not really sure why he was fishing for information. Aragorn chuckled merrily, shaking his head a little.    
_ “Haldir,” _ he corrected. “I knew him since I was a young lad. He had taught me a lot more than shooting a bow…” He trailed off for a moment, his expression turning serious. His eyes remained soft, however, a certain look to them telling Faramir that now was not the time to inquire about an Elf he did not know. Bowing his head, the prince kissed him again, shivering when Aragorn responded with hunger. 

One of Aragorn’s hands grabbed his and pulled it down the king’s body, trailing a slow path until it came to rest at Aragorn’s hip still shielded by the blanket. It was not hard to guess what Elessar wanted, and the prince let his palm travel to the heat between his legs, fingers curling around the hard flesh he found there.  Unbidden, the words of his brother filtered through the haze in his head -  _ Pretend he is a stable boy, then! _ \- and Faramir had to squish the urge to snort. He knew well what to do, the mechanics were as simple as the act they led to , even if it carried an importance as great as Valar themselves. 

He started to move his hand, slowly at first, careful, measured strokes that he would use on one of his fellow rangers, designed to tease rather than to relieve any tension. And, when Aragorn pulled back from the kiss to inhale sharply while his whole body jolted, Faramir realized that he did not have to pretend. He had his king in his hands, Aragorn Elessar, the one person he had wanted since before he had ever laid his eyes on him.   
“I love you, my king,” he whispered, in awe with the realization, and Aragorn’s hand grabbed his moving one with such force Faramir was sure his wrist would be bruised later. The king stilled his arm, his breathing laboured as he fought the trembling that overtook his form.   
“By Eru, Faramir,” Aragorn rasped, licking his lips quickly, “please hurry, or I’ll embarrass myself.” With that, he tugged Faramir’s hand away and pushed it lower, shuffling his legs apart and leading Faramir’s fingers deeper. 

The prince gasped, feeling his own manhood swell further when he touched the tightly furled muscle. He rubbed his fingertips over it, listening to the way Aragorn’s breath hitched, amazed at the small twitch of the king’s hips, clearly seeking more sensation. 

Withdrawing, biting his lip at the desperate noise Aragorn made in protest, Faramir sat up and twisted around, trying to locate the small jar of balm. It had been given to him by one of the girls helping in the House of Healing, right after he had been discharged. It was supposed to help with relieving muscle pain, but Faramir had found it worked well for his lips that always got too dry after a day out in the harsh wind and harsher sunlight. He hoped it would serve well now, too - the last thing he wanted was to hurt his king. 

When he turned back to look at Aragorn, the blanket was pushed down, pooling at his knees, covering nothing at all, and he was delighted by the sight of Elessar naked, looking glorious in the bright morning light, his flesh hard and twitching slightly under Faramir’s gaze. The prince had to swallow through the excess of saliva as his mouth watered. The king looked good enough to eat, and Faramir promised himself that he would at least  _ try _ on the next possible occasion. 

As far as his wishes ran, Faramir had to bring himself to the here and now -  _ here  _ with Aragorn in his bed, and  _ now, _ with the jar of balm in his hand. He opened it quickly, scooping up a generous amount, before he placed the container aside within easy reach. He let his eyes travel to Aragorn’s face,  to the loving gaze that beckoned him closer, and Faramir bowed down, kissing his king. His hand traveled lower, glistening fingers pressing against the hidden entrance to Aragorn’s body, and the man gave an appreciative moan when one of them slipped inside slowly. Encouraged, Faramir set to prepare his king lovingly, knowing the technique required for the task from his ranger days. There had been different circumstances that had thrown him into the arms of his fellow men, but they had always paid attention not to injure each other - it would have been a poor sign of conduct if the troops went limping into battle. 

When he started to move his finger, Aragorn’s legs parted further, a movement felt rather than seen by Faramir, who was otherwise occupied with kissing his king. Sensing them both becoming breathless, panting and gasping for air, Faramir pulled back slightly, still close enough to observe Aragorn’s face. He chose this moment to  add his second finger into the equation, and the noise that left Aragorn, the breathy little sound so full of longing, was a benediction in and of itself. Smiling, taking in the tightly closed eyes, Faramir went on, not stopping  his gentle caress , until Aragorn was ready to shake apart. When the prince curled his fingers up,  curiously seeking the one place he knew from experience would bring the world crashing down around his lover, Aragorn found his voice again. 

“Please,” he rasped out, voice gone gritty and deep. “Do not tease me so, meleth… I will not stand it.” His eyes were cracked open, his lips parted, and Faramir could not deny him anything. He leaned in for a quick kiss, then pulled his hand away and grabbed the jar again. Quickly slicking himself up, the prince wasted no time settling between Aragorn’s legs.  The king looked beautiful like this, a true vision, and Faramir was briefly reminded of the Elves, of their charm and eternal youth. Elessar was the most Elvish of all men, and to be the witness to such a view, to be allowed the closeness in the face of such utter vulnerability was breathtaking. 

He started to wonder, briefly, how to go about the best position, when Aragorn grew impatient and heaved himself up, his hands shooting to Faramir’s head. His fingers tangled in the messy curls and he tugged Faramir down, fastening their mouths together immediately. The prince followed, groaning when the position pressed them close together, and somehow, lined them up almost perfectly. It took nothing at all to cant his hips up a bit, feel the tip of his length resting at the entrance to his king’s body. Aragorn gave a very enthusiastic moan, bringing his legs around Faramir’s waist and arching up. 

Slowly, so very slowly, Faramir rocked forward. He felt himself slip inside inch by inch, enveloped in the tight heat of Aragorn’s body. The sensation was enough to make him lose his grip on sanity, so he clenched his fingers on Aragorn’s shoulders, staring intently at his king to make sure he caused no hurt. There was no pain to be seen, however, in Aragorn’s widely opened eyes, only some kind of unadulterated wonder shining forth, something Faramir did not feel worthy to be the recipient of.    
“Faramir… Mîr nîn… Mibo nin! Please, Faramir!” The king muttered, his lips suddenly too dry to work properly. His mind must have taken a leave of absence as well, judging by the way he started to mix up languages, but Faramir was not discouraged.    
“Aragorn?” He breathed out once he was fully inside his king, their bodies pressed tightly together.    
“Kiss me,” Aragorn whispered, his chest heaving, almost as if he couldn’t get enough air. 

The prince went gladly, almost too eagerly,  for in his haste to fulfill the request, he collided their noses together. But Aragorn did not seem to mind, reflexively angling his head to the side, his intent only on feeding upon the younger man’s lips. 

Stillness settled over them like a hazy dream, their bodies getting used to the sensations, until Aragorn broke away finally, looking up at Faramir with such adoration in his feverish eyes the younger man felt his insides fluttering.    
“By Valar,  _ move! _ Before I lose my senses!”  The king said, clearly meaning it to be a command, but his voice was too weak and it came out as a plea. Not keen on making him beg, Faramir shifted his hips carefully, withdrawing slightly, before he slid in again. Aragorn’s thighs squeezed around him, his eyes slamming shut, and when the prince noticed the small frown marring his lover’s brow, he was ready to pull away completely in fear of causing him any pain. But, a very approving moan tore itself loose from Aragorn’s chest, a deep and raspy sound that drifted around them, and, hiding his own face in his king’s neck, Faramir started up a slow pace. 

Even if Faramir was doing most of the work required, Aragorn did not stay idle. He started to shift restlessly under the younger man, arching up against him and letting his hands wander over Faramir’s broad back. His legs spasmed around Faramir’s waist every so often, and not long since they started, he dug his heels into his prince’s backside and urged him on, making him pick up the speed of his thrusts. 

Through it all, Aragorn was increasingly vocal, even if his voice stayed hushed. He started to mutter words and encouragements, not all of them in the Common Tongue, and Faramir was left guessing what he meant. He was sure he would have to spend more time learning Elvish - the words that spilled from his king’s mouth were beautiful in the way they sounded, but he would gladly know their meaning.  He had a feeling, though, that if he had possessed enough faculties to decipher what Aragorn was saying, the whole encounter would have been already over, for his king’s tone implied just how lost in the moment he was. 

Faced with such fierce uninhibitedness, Faramir knew he would not last for much longer anyway. He could feel pleasure trickling down his spine, speeding up his blood until it was only a pounding rush in his ears, drowning out everything but Aragorn’s whimpers of  _ meleth _ and  _ Mîr, _ and the prince suddenly found himself balancing on the sharp edge of desire. He sneaked one hand between their bodies, then had to grit his teeth as Aragorn tensed when his fingers curled around his neglected length. A few careful moves, a slight twist, and the king was shaking apart in his arms, clinging to him as if his life depended on it. Faramir could not stop himself if he tried and, still rocking his hips, he followed Aragorn into bliss just a moment later,  the sharp sting of Aragorn’s nails scratching across his back and down his ribs pushing him into oblivion.

They stayed frozen in the same position, until Faramir’s muscles protested finally and, with the last of his strength, he disentangled himself from Aragorn, lying down next to him. The brief wince he saw when they parted worried him for a few heartbeats, but the king did not seem to mind what they had done, if the way he curled himself up against Faramir’s chest was any indication. Pushing his nose into Faramir’s ribs, Aragorn hummed contentedly, tilting his head to place a soft kiss right over his prince’s heart. He started murmuring something, too, one hand traveling across Faramir’s ribs, until the arm was securely wrapped around him, keeping him close.    
“Ci bain…” Aragorn slurred, kissing the spot again. “Bain sui in elin… sui in nimloth vi Ithilien…”  Faramir had no idea what he was saying, but the tone was so sweet, he could not help but smile, gazing down at the unruly dark hair and the noble profile of his lover. Aragorn went on for a moment longer, whispering “len melin, Mîr nîn,” before his mutterings were stopped by Faramir’s soft chuckle. 

The king paused, looking up at the younger man, his eyes sleepy and satisfied. Faramir’s smile widened.    
“You have to teach me your Elvish language, my king, because I did not understand a word of what you have just said,” Faramir noted, merriment shining clearly through his eyes, and Aragorn smiled, too.    
_ “Meleth _ means love,” he offered, pressing his lips to the first part of Faramir he had available, which turned out to be his shoulder.    
“And Mîr?” The prince asked. He had heard it a few times, coming out of Aragorn’s mouth almost like a prayer.    
_ “Jewel…” _ Aragorn filled him in, his smile never faltering. At Faramir’s inquiringly raised eyebrow, he went on. “It is my name for you…” 

Well, with such a confession, Faramir saw no choice but to kiss him soundly, hoisting him higher up in his arms and ravishing him until they were both back to being breathless. 

The happy bubble they had created around the two of them vanished with a knock on the door a few minutes later. Groaning in annoyance, Faramir wrapped himself in his dressing gown and went to answer, finding Idris on the other side. The maid curtsied quickly, before she asked whether he knew where the king was, for there was an urgent matter concerning the delegation that was to reach them today, and Elessar was nowhere to be seen. Faramir soothed her fears quickly, promising to look into whatever trouble arose as soon as he made himself presentable, and the maid went away.  Frowning, thinking that he should have a word with his brother about managing the kingdom while Aragorn was otherwise occupied - Boromir was the Steward of Gondor, after all! \- the prince walked back into his bedchamber. He couldn’t shake off the impression that Idris had been smiling a bit too sweetly at him. 

Aragorn was already up and pulling on his previously discarded clothes, finding them one after another in a heap on the floor. He paused while tugging on his leggings, sending Faramir a slow, easy smile, before he resumed his struggle with the fabric.    
“Who was it?” Aragorn asked, doing the lacing up, hoping nobody would notice that he was wearing the very same clothes he had done yesterday. People were too damn observant inside the citadel and, while he would not mind parading Faramir around and serenading him in front of the whole court, he was not sure if the younger man would be on board with such a display.    
“Idris. There is some kind of trouble with the delegation… or with the preparations. I know not, but I shall go and amend it as soon as possible.”  Faramir would much rather stay with Aragorn until the lords arrived, but he knew his duty only too well. The king nodded in understanding, pulling on the rest of his robes.    
“Shall I see you at breakfast?”    
“I hope so!” Faramir nodded enthusiastically.    
“Good! I am not sure if I could endure Boromir’s inquisitive gaze all on my own,” Aragorn admitted, laughing good-naturedly.    
“I am not sure if announcing it to him so soon would be a good idea…” Faramir worried aloud, thinking about his brother’s protective side.    
“Announcing? Dear heart, it will take him one look at me to know what has transpired. As for you, I’m sure he must have had some kind of a prophetic dream already. You two, Sons of Gondor, are far too magical when it comes to those things…  Well, in any case, you are, Faramir,” saying that, Aragorn moved closer, stealing one more kiss from his prince, murmuring a low “for the road”.

-&-

In the end, Boromir did not need an announcement - on his way to the dining hall, he discovered two figures kissing against a wall. And if Aragorn pressed a very scandalized Faramir to the tapestry and let his hands wander south, Boromir was not there for long enough to witness it. Shaking his head, giving one triumphant  _ whoop, _ he went to start on the breakfast, grinning like a madman. 

The king and the prince joined him soon after, taking their respective seats and trying to remain casual. It was Boromir who finally broke the silence, smiling sweetly at Aragorn.    
“So… is my brother as good as the rumors among the rangers imply?” He asked almost innocently, his eyes glittering. Aragorn inhaled the tea he was supposed to swallow, and Faramir almost spat out the meat he had just started chewing. After they calmed themselves and took a few relaxing breaths, they both glared at the steward. Boromir guffawed, raising his cup in the air triumphantly.    
“Rumors?” Aragorn hissed, his gaze hard. 

He suddenly appeared too tense to be sitting at the table, almost ready to jump up and defend Faramir’s honor, and Boromir tried to amend the situation, feeling that he had overstepped some invisible line.  Besides, Aragorn like this, possibly armed only with the spoon lying near his hand on the table, was as dangerous as he would be while wielding Andúril.   
“Calm yourself, my king,” he said placatingly, raising his hands in surrender. “I jest, there are no rumors.”    
“Good. See to it that they don’t appear,” Elessar growled, relaxing back into his chair. Boromir eyed him curiously, before he let his gaze travel to his little brother. 

Faramir was sitting there, biting his lip, his cheeks turning pink. Before Boromir could enquire about his well-being, however, Elessar spoke again, his tone much softer.    
“But if you must know…  Faramir proved to be quite knowledgeable in the matter. Enough so that I am immensely glad that I had convinced him to change his old mattress to the new, softer one. My back would not take it otherwise-”   
“Alright!  _ Alright!” _ Boromir stopped him quickly. “I did not ask for  _ details, _ a simple yes would suffice… by  _ Eru!” _ He groaned, pressing his hands to his eyes. Aragorn smirked, then looked at Faramir, who was blushing furiously by now. 

His smile turning gentle, Aragorn leaned forward and tugged him in for a sweet kiss. It was languid and unrushed, and it was broken only when Boromir’s groan drifted around them, signaling that the Steward of Gondor had pulled his hands away from his face.    
“Alright, you two lovebirds, stop it. I wanted to eat my breakfast. Keep it inside your bedchambers, will you?” He groused, busying himself with wine. Aragorn snorted, but released his prince, who looked just a bit more dazed than a few minutes before. The king vowed to put that expression on Faramir as often as he could, starting this evening, as soon as the delegation from Belfalas was dealt with. 

This train of thought brought back questions, however, and Aragorn frowned.    
“Faramir? When we met in the corridor, I forgot to ask… What was this urgent trouble you had to deal with this morning?” Hearing the question, the prince seemed to shake himself back into the real world, his eyes focused and sharp once more.    
“Oh. The matter was a trifle. To tell the truth I am surprised anyone would set out to find either you or me to determine what color of the tablecloth should be used,” he said,  throwing Boromir a dirty look. “One would think _ the Steward of Gondor _ could deal with such a matter.” 

The older brother raised his hands again, lowering his gaze resolutely.    
“I merely wanted to be  _ sure,” _ he argued, to which Elessar chuckled.    
“Sure about the tablecloth? Or about me and your brother?” He asked, raising one eyebrow. “Oh Boromir, if you wanted more details, you had but to ask!”    
“No!” The steward stood up quickly, his chair moving behind him with a loud scraping noise. “I’m out. If anyone needs me, I’ll be in the library!” He announced, walking out. Grinning, Aragorn looked at his retreating back. After Boromir disappeared behind the heavy door, the king turned to Faramir. 

“Does he even know where the library _is?”_ He mused aloud, not able to keep the laughter out of his voice. After a moment, the prince laughed with him, thinking about all the ways he could get back at his older brother for all the pranks he had pulled on him in their childhood.   
“You look like you are planning something utterly mischievous, dear heart, and I would like to be included!” Aragorn prompted, sipping his tea.   
“I am merely thinking about all the frogs and crickets Boromir had let loose in my room when we were kids…” Faramir’s answer was accompanied by a suggestive grin, and Aragorn caught up quickly.   
“Oh! Let me tell you about my Elven brothers!”

As they dissolved into conversation, Faramir could not stop himself from making careful plans about the future -  _ their _ future and the future of the whole of Middle Earth. It started to look brighter and brighter with every minute. 


End file.
